


Nihil perpetuum

by nomsy



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Drunkenness, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kissing, M/M, Romance, Seneca Crane's Beard, Tragic Romance, it should have its own character tag really, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 09:39:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6149383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomsy/pseuds/nomsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There are stories about a Roman named Seneca.”<br/>“What did he do?” Seneca asked, curious. He’d always been curious as a child.<br/>The teacher smiled at him. “The emperor thought Seneca had plotted to kill him. Then he forced Seneca to commit suicide.”</p>
<p>Or, Seneca and Haymitch from the 50th to the 74th Hunger Games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nihil perpetuum

Seneca remembers the 50th Hunger Games.

He remembers staring at the screen, taking in every moment, thinking this is amazing, this is fantastic.

He remembers Haymitch Abernathy winning and the rush he’d felt at it – he’d won his bet, he’d get a lot of money, because he’d known it would end like this from the first second, before any of the tributes had even stepped off their platforms into the arena.

 

One of his teachers once told him, “Seneca is a Roman name.”

“What’s a Roman?” he’d asked. He’d never heard that word before.

“The Romans were an old, powerful civilization a long time ago,” the teacher explained. “There are stories about a Roman named Seneca.”

“What did he do?” Seneca asked, curious. He’d always been curious as a child.

The teacher smiled at him. “The emperor thought Seneca had plotted to kill him. Then he forced Seneca to commit suicide.”

Seneca hadn’t known what ‘suicide’ was at that age, but he’d been too proud to ask.

When he’d realized it years later, the teacher hadn’t been at the school in a long time. His parents told him that she had moved to a different part of town, and that he shouldn’t believe anything she’d taught him because she wasn’t a good teacher and didn’t know her obligations to Panem.

The whole thing left him rather uneasy.

 

He properly meets Haymitch during the 52nd Games. Haymitch is mentoring, and Seneca’s just started working as one of the assistant Gamemakers’ assistants. He knows it’s going to take him a long time to get a respectable position, but he doesn’t mind. Eventually, he’ll be properly involved in running the games.

Haymitch is trying to get people to bet on the tributes of District 12, but it’s obvious that no one will. 12’s tributes are even more weakly and thin this year than they usually are, and they’re both only thirteen.

“Have you made your bets yet, sir?” Haymitch asks him. Seneca can tell that he’s tired, with bags under his eyes and greyish skin.

“Sorry,” Seneca says. “I’m not allowed to. I’m involved in planning the Games.”

Haymitch looks at him with disgust. It’s almost frightening, the way his face turns into a grimace.

“I bet on you, when you were a tribute,” Seneca says.

“You’re sick.” Haymitch turns around and leaves. Seneca feels slightly guilty, even though he knows he doesn’t have a reason to.

 

It’s the 53rd Games, and they’re both watching battle at the cornucopia. 12’s tributes have both died, and Haymitch is drinking. The crowds disperse slowly once the games calm down and the bloodbath is over, until Seneca and Haymitch are alone.

Seneca walks over to Haymitch. “Hello,” he says.

Haymitch stares at him with empty eyes. “Hello,” he says.

“It’s not – it’s not your fault,” Seneca says.

“Not my fault,” Haymitch says. “Right. Thank you. Get out.”

“I’m sorry –“

“No, you’re really not,” Haymitch says. “You’re Capitol, you don’t know what it means to feel sorry for another human.”

Seneca can only stare after Haymitch as he walks away, smashing his glass on the floor.

 

They don’t really speak after that. There’s snide comments, and sneering, and arrogant looks, but that’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.

 

Until the 56th Games, when they end up talking once in a while if they happen to watch the Games on the public screens at the same time. Seneca suspects Haymitch is being reasonably friendly to him to get some sort of information on what’s going to happen in the arena. Both of his tributes have made it to Day 3 this time, which is better than they’ve done in the past few years.

As he walks through the building one night, he finds Haymitch alone in one of the lounges, drinking. Haymitch drinks quite a lot during the Games.

Seneca enters the room, hovering by the door uncertainly.

“Come in,” Haymitch calls without turning around to look at him.

Seneca takes a seat next to Haymitch on the sofa. Once they look each other in the eye, Seneca is startled to see that Haymitch seems to have cried.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Haymitch looks at him. “Yeah,” he says sarcastically.

“What happened?”

“The Games,” Haymitch says.

“But your tributes are doing alright –“

“My Games.”

“Oh.” Seneca’s never thought that victors would be sad about their Games after they won them.

“You’re famous now, though,” he says, trying to cheer Haymitch up a little. “You won.”

Haymitch stares at him, and it’s scary. Seneca’s never seen anyone look like that. Like there’s nothing inside them anymore.

“My parents are dead,” Haymitch says. “My younger brother. My girl. They killed them all. They try to make you do things… You don’t win anything. No one wins. Except you, all of you here in the Capitol…” He trails off and takes another swig.

Seneca doesn’t know what to do. He’s always tried not to think about what goes on behind the scenes of the Games, outside the arena. He doesn’t want to know anything about that. He cares about the Games themselves, not about anything around them. He cups the back of Haymitch’s neck, running his fingers through Haymitch’s hair, pulls him into a half-hug. Seneca’s heart is beating hard inside his chest. He’s surprised and relieved when Haymitch doesn’t push him away.

 

It gets better after that, easier with each year. They talk sometimes, stilted but polite.

 

During the 59th Games, they end up sitting in the lounge at night, when everyone’s gone to sleep. There were multiple deaths during the day, so people know this night will be quiet. They’re all taking their chance to catch up on sleep without missing anything exciting.

“What are you still doing here?” Haymitch says after a while, breaking the silence.

Seneca looks at him. “I work here,” he says. “I need to keep up to date on what’s happening if I ever want to get a promotion.”

Haymitch snorts but doesn’t say anything else.

Seneca rubs his stiff neck and gets up. “I’m going home,” he announces, feeling stupid.

Haymitch gets up as well. “Good idea,” he says. Seneca doesn’t know if he’s being sarcastic or just making conversation. Probably the former.

He’s rather annoyed by that – Haymitch doesn’t have a reason to be so condescending. Seneca’s doing well, he’s got a good job, a nice apartment, a promising future. He doesn’t need some person from the Districts looking down on him, no matter whether they’re a victor or not.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Seneca says.

“Hopefully not,” Haymitch replies, and that’s it. Seneca kisses him. He hardly knows why, except it feels like the only thing to do.

He’s surprised, but far from displeased, when Haymitch returns the kiss and wraps his arms around Seneca’s waist.

 

“You look ridiculous,” Haymitch says at the 60th Games, looking at Seneca’s hair, which is newly blue and curly, with obvious disdain.

Seneca crosses his arms. “It’s this season’s look,” he says defensively.

Haymitch doesn’t care, Seneca knows, but he babbles on. “Everyone thinks it’s really –“

He’s shut up by Haymitch’s kiss. He’s never cared less about being interrupted. He has dreamed of this in the year they’ve been apart, being able to stroke Haymitch’s sides and kiss him back slowly and deeply.

“Absolutely ridiculous,” Haymitch murmurs when they stop for breath, and Seneca laughs.

“Why would you want blue hair?” Haymitch continues, combing his fingers through Seneca’s curls, and Seneca really can’t stop laughing now, even as he pulls Haymitch onto the couch and straddles him.

Haymitch runs his hands down Seneca’s back, eventually settling them on his hips, and smiles up at him. “It kind of suits you,” he says.

Seneca smiles back and bends down to kiss him, pushes up Haymitch’s shirt to roam his hands over warm, smooth skin. Haymitch is skinny, Seneca can feel his ribs, and he watches Haymitch’s eyelids flutter shut as he keeps petting him.

“This feels good,” Haymitch whispers, and Seneca feels heat rush through him at the way Haymitch wets his lips. “Kiss me again,” he rasps, and Seneca complies happily.

He didn’t think it would be so easy, and feel so right, when he’d imagined it, but Haymitch makes him feel like they were always meant to end up like this. They don’t stop kissing, and Seneca never wants this to end, and it’s over too fast, but it’s okay. Haymitch holding him after, stroking his hair, nuzzling his cheek, trailing his fingers over Seneca’s lips, is just as good, feels just as amazing. He doesn’t tell Haymitch that, though, because maybe he’d find it stupid.

“Haymitch?” he whispers.

“Yes?” Haymitch says lazily, pressing a kiss into Seneca’s hair. He can’t find the blue that terrible, then, Seneca thinks.

He takes a deep breath. “Are you – was that – okay?” He feels himself blush. Just great. Not embarrassing at all.

Haymitch chuckles, rubs little circles between Seneca’s shoulder blades. “Where’d your usual arrogance go?” he teases, but then he whispers, “Of course. Thank you.”

Seneca nestles closer to him under the blankets. He wishes this could last forever, but for now he’ll content himself with the moment.

 

Of course it doesn’t last. The next year, Haymitch is surly, and doesn’t look at Seneca when they pass each other, much less speak to him.

Seneca remembers how they said goodbye the last time, with soft kisses and smiles, and he feels like crying.

It had been good, and he’d been looking forward to seeing Haymitch again. He’d also been nervous, and excited, but mostly happy, and now this.

“What did I do?” he snaps at Haymitch one night, when he gets him alone in an empty screening room. The games are slow right now. They’ll need to come up with some way to mix them up soon. In fact, that’s what Seneca should be doing right now, instead of trying to get Haymitch to talk to him.

“I don’t know,” Haymitch says. “For starters, you kill children for a living.”

“You didn’t mind that last year,” Seneca says.

Haymitch scowls at him. “I more than mind it,” he says. “I always have.”

Seneca is so tired. He doesn’t know what to do, or what to say. He doesn’t care anymore. Everything seems exhausting. “Fine,” he says. “I’m going to get some sleep, tomorrow is going to be –“

Haymitch reaches out to him, even though he’s still scowling. “Wait,” he says. Seneca thinks it must have cost him a lot to persuade himself to say that, so he stops.

“You stand for everything I hate,” Haymitch says.

“Oh, this is fun,” Seneca says. “You’re such a romantic.” He crosses his arms.

Haymitch runs both hands through his hair. “But I – I want –“

Seneca kisses him, because otherwise Haymitch is never going to make a decision on what he wants this year, and Seneca doesn’t want to waste the few precious days they can see each other.

From the way Haymitch sighs into their kiss and slides his hands under Seneca’s shirt, stroking his chest and ribs, Seneca’s fairly sure he’s decided anyway.

 

Seneca dislikes Effie Trinket from the moment he meets her. She joins right before the 65th Games, and even though she’s only been allocated District 12, she’s ridiculously motivated. She’s young, and pretty, and chipper, and annoying from her bouncy turquoise curls to her spiky red heels. Seneca doesn’t like the way she looks at Haymitch. He’s very aware that Haymitch is good looking, even if he’s been getting very thin and pale from all his drinking. But he belongs to Seneca.

It’s nonsense to even worry, of course, because Effie is too affected, too artificial, to ever be capable of considering Haymitch her equal, someone to see as a person, someone to love.

“I like your hair better like this,” is the first thing Haymitch says to him these Games. Seneca’s gone back to his natural hair color, which has earned him strange looks from most of his acquaintances.

Effie is stalking along the corridor in front of them, checking her clipboard. Seneca scowls at her back.

“She’s annoying,” Haymitch says quietly as Effie presses the elevator button. She taps her foot, waiting for it to arrive.

Haymitch leans forward and kisses Seneca so quickly that it seems almost like a dream. Seneca gapes at him. This is a whole new level of audacious, anyone could have seen. Haymitch winks at him, then follows Effie into the elevator.

Seneca feels almost indecently happy.

They manage to meet up later that night, and Seneca wonders if this is what people from the districts feel when they get a full meal – pure and utter bliss.

It’s different from how it used to be, they’re getting older, falling into a routine, taking their time. Haymitch whispers teasing words, somehow still sarcastic even now, kisses away the beads of sweat on Seneca’s skin, tells him it’s okay, I’ve got you, just breathe. It’s too much, too much pleasure, too much happiness. It almost hurts.

“Don’t leave me,” Seneca says when their breathing’s calmed and the flush has faded from their skin. He’s wrapped his arms around Haymitch, a leg hooked over his thigh. He’s not letting go. “Don’t go away.”

“Don’t worry,” Haymitch says. “You’ll have to deal with me for a long time.” There’s a sparkle in his eyes and he smiles slightly.

Seneca laughs, runs his thumb along Haymitch’s jaw. “Fine with me,” he says.

It’s more than fine, really. It’s frighteningly close to perfect.

 

The year of the 66th Games is when Seneca decides he needs to look the part of somebody who is rapidly rising through the ranks of Gamemakers.

“What’s that?” Haymitch asks.

“What?” Seneca says.

Haymitch watches him with narrow eyes. “On your face.”

“My beard?” Seneca unconsciously reaches up to touch his chin.

“Is that what it’s supposed to be?”

“Very funny. This is the latest –“

“Oh, shut up,” Haymitch says, and kisses him.

 

It’s the 68th Games, and Haymitch is drunk. Well. Not just drunk, he’s completely out of it. Seneca finds him in his room, on the floor, obviously not having made it to the bed when coming home earlier this night.

He kneels down next to Haymitch and caresses his cheek, which isn’t enough to wake him up. He lightly shakes Haymitch’s shoulder, which helps, and Haymitch groans and looks up at him.

“Seneca?”

“Yes, it’s me,” Seneca says. “Do you need anything?”

Haymitch doesn’t say anything, but looks like he’s about to throw up, so Seneca gets him into the bathroom.

Haymitch puts his head on the cool floor and closes his eyes.

Seneca carefully strokes his hair. “It’s okay,” he says. He can’t think of anything to do.

“So you got another promotion,” Haymitch says. He laughs bitterly.

Oh, Seneca thinks. So that’s why.

“Yes,” he says quietly, still running his fingers through Haymitch’s hair, gently scratching his scalp because he knows Haymitch likes that, it calms him down.

“You’re head Gamemaker,” Haymitch slurs. “Great.”

“I’m sorry,” Seneca says.

“No, you’re not. You wanted that job.”

“Yes, I did,” Seneca admits. “But I’m sorry it’s causing you pain.”

Haymitch nods absentmindedly. “What’s a little more pain?” he asks.

Seneca strokes Haymitch’s cheek and gently puts his head in his lap. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

Haymitch’s closed his eyes. “It’s funny, though, how you ended up right here tonight when you should probably be at some fancy dinner.”

That’s right, actually, but he hadn’t much felt like dinner. Seneca makes calming noises, because Haymitch has started to shake, but then he retches, trying to get up. He doesn’t make it in time to reach the toilet or the sink. He ends up throwing up over himself and the floor.

“’m sorry,” he groans.

“Don’t be,” Seneca says. His eyes are stinging, but he’s not going to cry now, not when Haymitch needs someone to be there for him. He helps Haymitch undress, gets a cloth, cleans him up, and gets him to lie down in the bed to get some rest.

“You can leave if you want,” Haymitch slurs, barely intelligible due to tiredness and alcohol consumption.

“I can’t,” Seneca says, sitting down on the empty side of the bed. “I never could.”

Haymitch reaches out to take his hand, and Seneca gently squeezes his fingers.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says, but Haymitch’s already fallen asleep.

It’s the first time in his life that Seneca wishes he was living in a District. That way, he could be with Haymitch all the time, and make sure he drinks less, and gets up in the morning, and has proper meals.

He sighs. They are what they are and there’s no changing it.

 

These Games, the 74th, are different. It’s a year before the Quarter Quell, which is going to be Seneca’s biggest test so far, and nothing is working out the way it should. District 12’s tributes are doing better than they have ever since the 50th Games, when Haymitch won. Seneca’s impressed and relieved, because Haymitch is drinking less, and trying to secure sponsors for his tributes.

They’re talking quietly. Seneca keeps looking around to make sure no one is watching them, but they’re all alone.

Haymitch is trying to convince him to change the rules, and he’s a clever bastard, leaning in, and lowering his voice, and smoothing the lapels of Seneca’s suit.

Seneca would do anything for him, anyway, and this isn’t that bad an idea. It’s a risk, though, and not a small one.

“Sometimes you have to take risks,” Haymitch says. “Sometimes they’re worth it. You know that, don’t you?”

Of course he knows that.

He sighs, watching Haymitch walk away, his head held high. Seneca thinks about all the things he said – about taking risks, and hope, and love. He shakes his head. He has to get back to the control room.

Haymitch turns around at the end of the corridor and looks at him. “See you tonight?” he asks.

“Yes, of course,” Seneca says, smiling.

He can’t help it.

 

He’s scared. He knows he’s failed, and without doubt he will be punished for it. He stares at the ceiling, not seeing anything. He needs sleep. There will be important people to speak to tomorrow. If he makes it to tomorrow.

His doorbell rings. He flinches. Maybe it’s someone who’s been sent to fetch him for an interrogation or something even worse. Or better. Maybe an interrogation would be the worst thing. He doubts he’d be treated nicely during one. He’s reminded of his teacher when he was little, and of the Roman Seneca. He squeezes his eyes shut. There’s no use in trying to hide, or pretending he’s not at home.

He gets up and opens the door. Haymitch is standing outside. Seneca is so surprised that he lets him in without question, quickly closing the door behind him. It wouldn’t be good for them to be seen together tonight, not with everything that has been happening.

“Haymitch,” Seneca says, but Haymitch is already kissing him.

Seneca’s swept with relief, clutching Haymitch and returning the kiss, getting as close as possible. He doesn’t want anything else, how could he ever have thought his career could be the most important thing in his life? It’s too late now, though, so he tries not to think about it.

Haymitch pulls away after a while. “How are you?” he asks. If Seneca didn’t know him, he’d think Haymitch was worried about him.

Seneca shrugs. “Fine,” he says, not even trying to make it sound like the truth.

Haymitch takes his hand. “Bedroom?” he asks.

Seneca points in the direction wordlessly, and Haymitch gently steers him into the bedroom and makes him get into bed.

“You need some sleep,” he says. “You look terrible.”

Seneca laughs. He’s going to die, probably soon. Though he supposes there’s worse things to die for than his own mistakes. “The President doesn’t like me at the moment. How am I supposed to sleep?”

Haymitch doesn’t say anything, but looks around the room with keen eyes. Seneca sighs and rests his head against Haymitch’s shoulder. Of course, all his rooms probably bugged and the President knows everything he does. Seneca isn’t afraid for himself, it’s not like his situation could get much worse, but he doesn’t want to put Haymitch in danger.

He should send Haymitch away, this is dangerous. If someone comes to get him, there might not be enough time for Haymitch to get away unnoticed. Seneca should tell him that, insists on Haymitch getting somewhere safer, but he can’t. He needs this right now, and he wishes he didn’t. Then again, he’s never been strong.

He finally manages to fall asleep in Haymitch’s arms, dreaming of scary things that never quite show themselves. He wakes up feeling ill, and he gets ready quietly so as to not wake Haymitch, who’s still asleep, looking almost peaceful.

Seneca takes deep, slow breaths. He’s not going to throw up. He has his pride. He leaves a note for Haymitch, it’s nothing special, just telling him I’ve got to go to work and thank you and please help yourself to anything in the house. Be careful, he adds after a few seconds.

He kisses Haymitch’s temple carefully, gently brushes his hair out of his face and looks at him. It takes him longer than it should to be able to tear his eyes away. He’s going to be late. He almost laughs. It’s not like punctuality matters now.

Seneca leaves his apartment and goes to work. He’s fairly sure this is the last time. He’s not a stupid man, after all, even if he’s made some bad choices that are now going to cost him his life.

He thinks of Haymitch, still asleep in his bed, and decides that, in the end, some of his decisions weren’t all that bad.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Seneca's quote "Nihil perpetuum, pauca diuturna sunt" which can roughly (very roughly, it's been a while since I've done Latin) be translated as "Nothing is forever, few things are long-lasting).


End file.
